


Strychnine

by hyakinthos



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Abuse, Assassin Training, Gen, does this count as an alternate character interpretation?, my illumi apologist is showing, set ten years pre-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3841678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyakinthos/pseuds/hyakinthos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You pick the child up with arms that are not your own. His eyes stare quizzically into yours. They are as clear and blue as they have been since his birth. They are brighter than they will ever be again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strychnine

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like you to be aware of two things:
> 
> 1) This fic contains descriptions of physical and mental abuse against young children.
> 
> 2) This fic portrays a younger Illumi as a sympathetic character.
> 
> If either of these things would upset you or make you angry, please don't read this fic. We're all here to have fun and I don't want anyone's parade to get rained on.

You open the door to his bedroom just enough to slide in. Is it habit? Is it fear or sadness or confusion or something else you aren’t allowed to think about? Guilt? You do not know.

It does not matter what you think about this. You are not to think anything about this. Nothing should be in your mind but duty and pride. You try and fix it that way—it does not help you.

You set the plastic cup down soundlessly on the edge of his dresser. This, at least, has gone well—you have managed not to spill any of its contents.

The child stirs in his bed. You have not been quiet enough. You must really be off. Step it up, you scold yourself.

You pick the child up with arms that are not your own. His eyes stare quizzically into yours. They are as clear and blue as they have been since his birth. They are brighter than they will ever be again.

You free up an arm, shifting him to your sharp-boned hip. You do not stop him from grabbing at your hair and you do not smile.

There is a reason you are here, and it’s inside the cup on the dresser. You reach for it. It suddenly feels acidic on your fingertips—you do not want to touch it.

This has never stopped you before. Your mechanized muscles lift the cup, holding it up for the child to look at. He reaches for it, cooing and babbling something you do not process.

You want him to stop.

This thought process is unnecessary. You know what you are to do and why. You _know_ that this will only benefit him. _You yourself did this,_ as well as your father and grandfather. Look how they turned out. Perfect.

You blink your glassy eyes and give the cup to him. He immediately begins to drink. You have watched terrible things, but not this. You allow your eyes to fall out of focus on the wall behind his head.

A moment passes. “All done!” he announces. You cannot remember if you have ever felt worse. You don’t _want_ to remember if you have ever felt worse.

Two drops of strychnine, miniscule, hardly a full milliliter.

“Good boy, Killu,” you praise him, offhand. For all you long to attend to him, you cannot focus. You have but minutes of this child left to you. After this, he is an assassin. You will toast his introduction to the family business this evening with more strychnine. It is fitting. You have always loathed its bitterness.

You will raise your glass and speak quietly and flatly, as you always have. To his future. To the family. It will _not_ make you want to bite your tongue and hide.

You must lay him down now. You have been told that you must not touch him once his convulsions begin. You hold him out in front of you and bend down.

You do not yet reach the floor. You know it will only make it worse, but you steal a moment gazing at him. His half-shut eyes are too detached to meet yours. It does not matter. (It matters.) You know he loves you.

It is over when he screams, his back arching out as far as it will go. You lay him on the rug, as gently as time allows for. It is only when you stand again that you take note of the tears burning the backs of your eyes.

You tell yourself to quit acting maudlin. You are too old for this, you are fourteen and you know that you know better. It is lucky that your tears are easily bitten back, along with this unseemly swell of emotion. It is ridiculous. You are _helping_ him. Your mother and father told you so.

You’re just going to have to work a little harder at remembering not to _forget_ that.

**Author's Note:**

> Illumi fascinates me. One really wonders what runs through that head of his, and how much of that is him and how much is his upbringing.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it! Any and all feedback is more than welcome, and if you'd like to tell me what an awful person I am for writing this, you may do so on my tumblr: http://morelikegaaay.tumblr.com


End file.
